Religion as the Key to Culture: an Arnoldian Interpretation of Victorian Texts

Ask any student of nineteenth-century literature and culture, what is Victorian literature? and the flood of answers will range from a tentative association to marriage-plots and vague religiosity to a more general idea of literature with a distinct social purpose. Most modern readers conceive of the Victorian era as a time in which literature seemed to marry deeply personal experiences and spirituality with a larger social commentary or goal. Victorian works mark a divide from their predecessors’ by incorporating a strand of social critique into works which appear to today’s reader to be as emotional and focused on the individual as the preceding movement of Romantic poetry. In the preface to his Culture and Anarchy, Matthew Arnold describes culture as “the study of perfection . . . a harmonious perfection, developing all sides of our humanity; and as a general perfection, developing all parts of our society” (11). Using this term, then, we might say that perhaps the Victorian writer strives to use his works to develop the culture of society by providing his own insights on the flaws (and their possible solutions) in society. Of course, in a society like Victorian England, shaped by a state church, even the most secular discussions seem to be couched in religious terms. Yet the Victorian era also marked a time in which the people of England deeply suspected social change; the terror of the French Revolution, after all, existed as a symbol of reform gone wrong, a signpost for a dangerous road. This tension between a need and desire for change and the fear of it naturally colored the literature of the time. How could an author, sure he has some crucial insight about the flaws of society, effectively convey a message of social change without alienating his cautious reader?

Arnold, an antidisestablishmentarian, posits that functioning within an established system of religion best allows for the attainment of a multi-faceted “perfection” in society.

Instead of battling for his own private forms of expressing the inexpressible . . . a man takes those which have commended themselves most to the religious life of his nation; and while he may be sure that within those forms the religious side of his own nature may find satisfaction, he has leisure and composure to satisfy other sides of his nature as well. [Arnold 15]

Arnold means that by operating within the framework of the Church of England, one may fall back on a sort of ready-made spirituality, and, rather than spend time and energy attempting to understand one’s individual position in relation to God, focus on becoming more generally well-rounded and “perfect.” He does not wax eloquent on the power of God or the Church to form these flawless citizens — Arnold awards little real reverence to the Church or any higher power, and instead simply views it as a means to an end, a way to find internal balance. A Victorian audience would have had a full understanding of the Christian faith; children learned to read using the King James Bible, and sermons were common and proper reading materials within families. By functioning within the terms of this well-defined and understood system, one would have the freedom to safely explore the more complicated aspects of humanity. Translating this theory to the literature of the time, which one should note that Arnold himself did not do, Victorian authors would have been able to approach and explain flaws in society by using the comfortable system of religion set up by the Church of England. Religion would come to serve as a tool, not notable for its inherent spirituality, but for its ability to tie the reader to familiar territory, to relate at least the gist of the piece, even when the author wishes to discuss secular societal concerns which otherwise may have alarmed the populace.

One familiar with Victorian literature cannot apply Arnold’s theory without thinking of the wide range of biblical typology utilized within texts of the time. Typology uses a particular biblical image or event to stand in for another one, a way to link two concepts in a way both indirect and yet readily accessible to all those familiar with the Bible — which is to say, most of the population in Victorian England. Could biblical types and symbols in Victorian texts actually function according to Arnold’s writings, as a mode of familiarity used to bridge the gap to some other human truth? Did religion come to exist in literature as a scheme of signifiers, a tool for the author to spread some “culture” without startling the masses, or could it have actually represented honest spirituality? In other words, were Victorian writers also Arnoldian?

This discussion naturally becomes complicated when one looks at Victorian literature as a whole. Religion was a part of culture — that cannot be disputed, and to some extent a shade of religiosity must enter even a text which does not seem to explicitly deal with it. But of course this era had a wide range of styles of writing. Unlike previous literary movements, where one rigidly prescribed to genre rules, Victorian authors approach religion, and typology, in a number of different ways, to different effect. In this sense it becomes difficult to generalize “Victorian literature” or even “Victorian typology” as Arnoldian; perhaps a more apt question would be: to what extent can the use of biblical references in Victorian literature be considered Arnoldian?

Some usages of typology in the Victorian era clearly lend themselves to Arnold’s idea. Typology, although inherently religious, seems in these cases to add more to the secular and social commentary of the work rather than deepening its spirituality. One of the most straightforward examples of this appears in Robert Browning’s The Ring and the Book. The work, a poem divided into twelve books, tells the fictionalized version of an actual murder trial in Rome, where the young Pompilia and her parents were killed at the hands of her much older husband, Count Guido, leaving the court (and the reader) to decide whether he should be condemned or liberated. Browning divides the narrative by giving a number of characters from the story their own book in which to explain their position on the trial. By presenting the plot in such a way, Browning keeps the reader wondering who tells the tale the truest, which character can be considered the protagonist — essentially, Browning leaves it to the reader to decide which speaker to trust. Yet he does not leave the reader clueless; instead he plants a trail of typology and biblical references for the reader to follow and decipher. When reading Guido’s first plea to his jury in Book V, for example, the reader initially feels unsure about whether to trust Guido or Pompilia’s account of the tale. Yet Book V gives the reader a number of signs that Guido should not be fully believed. He misquotes the Bible throughout it, conflates several biblical tales into one, and attempts to cast himself as a Christ-like figure. The final few lines of the poem, in which Guido tells his jury that setting him free would take Rome a step closer to Utopia, however, show him overshooting this goal:

Then I will set my son at my right-hand
And tell his father’s story to this point,
Adding, “The task seemed superhuman, still
I dared and did it, trusting God and law:
And they approved of me: give praise to both! [V, 2048-52]

Instead of making him seem trustworthy and pure of intention, Guido’s words strike the wrong note. His words echo Acts 2.34, in which Daniel declares that “The LORD said unto my lord, sit thou on my right hand” meaning that God has raised Christ to sit beside him. When Guido repeats this line (“Then I will set my son at my right hand”) he attempts to show himself as a type — not of Christ, but of God himself. The Victorian reader would have been taken aback by this blasphemous comparison; in Christ, human meets divine, and in this sense a human can be Christ-like, but a human cannot be analogous to God. He further digs himself into this hole, calling his task “superhuman” and then claiming to have conquered it. By making himself appear God-like, Guido makes the reader instantly wary of anything he says; his overblown typology makes him appear more the arrogant buffoon than Creator. Thus the reader feels that Guido’s perspective may be skewed and begin trusting other accounts, such as Pompilia’s. Typology therefore serves the function of clarifying the true plot and protagonist, and once this has been solidified in the reader’s mind, he can move on to think about the more complex implications of the text. For example, the reader might notice the line tying “God and law” together. In Guido’s description of Utopia the two work together, a joint team uplifting Guido. This line brings some finer allusions into sharper relief; the work as a whole clearly comments on law and its relationship to the Church. The trial takes place in a clerical court, after all, for Guido has taken minor vows which preserve him from Rome’s external justice system. Yet because Guido has shown himself to be a suspect character through his misuse of biblical references, everything he says become suspect: if Browning marks Guido as the antagonist of the tale, then his words, too, must be viewed to be antagonistic. Therefore, the reader may come to feel that Browning, in addition to condemning Guido, also condemns this link between God and the legal system.

This dance around the topic of the legal system continues throughout The Ring and the Book; the two legal counsels who speak their piece both appear to treat the trial as a joke, giving ridiculous logic to their arguments, generously misusing biblical references. Therefore the reader comes to distrust the words of Hyacinthus, Guido’s lawyer: “ . . . Law ducks to Gospel here: / Why should Law gain the glory and pronounce / a judgment shall immortalize the Pope?” (Ring VIII, 1414-6). Hyacinthus suggests that if the Pope decides to try Guido in a clerical court, and then saves him, the legal case could be transformed into a moral and religious cause. He implies that by making the case more about issues of morality in terms of the Church’s tenets, the Church will gain the upper hand on the legal system — and that the Pope should manipulate the law to benefit the Church and himself. Putting aside the fact that this logic entirely undercuts the purpose of a trial (to find some measure of justice for both victim and perpetrator), the reader immediately senses that Browning criticizes this blurring between legal and religious system. Hyacinthus has already proven himself untrustworthy; only a few pages before, he calls the multiplication of bread and fish in Matthew 15.34 a “parable” (VIII, 1202) — any Victorian reader would immediately know that this instance is not a parable but a miracle, and therefore read all his words afterwards doubtingly.

Browning peppers his poetry liberally with biblical allusions and uses these in conjunction with varied characters’ attempts at typification in order to create a complexly layered text. Browning’s choice to use multiple narrators seems to hide his purpose in retelling the true account, but his typology and usage of biblical references allows the clever reader to get the second story — Browning’s own social commentary. Browning does use religious standards which would have been recognized by his audience to better expose his message, but these nods to Christianity do not seem to enhance the work spiritually; a reader would probably not feel closer to God by reading this work. By subscribing to the system already in place and allowing his readers to relax in a familiar atmosphere, Browning allows himself the freedom to explore a different aspect of society — that of the legal system and justice. In this sense, a reader could regard The Ring and the Book as Arnoldian. It should perhaps be mentioned, however, that Browning himself felt rather ambivalent towards Christianity. In fact, “on one occasion much later in life when he was asked if he considered himself a Christian, Browning is supposed to have answered with "a thunderous 'NO!'"(Everett, “Browning’s Religious Views”). Does Browning use typology in an Arnoldian manner because he does not fully subscribe to religious beliefs himself?

Robert Browning’s wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, utilizes typology in a similar way in her verse-novel Aurora Leigh, but, unlike her husband, she was a staunch Christian. The novel focuses on the title character, who narrates her struggle to become a poet as well as her relationship with her would-be social reformist cousin, Romney. Barrett Browning appears to cast both characters in somewhat non-traditional biblical ‘types.’ Aurora seems to be a type for prophets in general. The novel characterizes poets thusly:

In this twofold sphere the twofold man
(For still the artist is intensely a man) . . . fixes still
the type with mortal vision, to pierce through
with eyes immortal, to the antetype
some call the ideal — better called the real. [VII, 777-83]

This idea of “double vision” (V, 184) means that Aurora, as poet, has some certain divine or spiritual insight, and certainly echoes biblical verses regarding prophets:

That it might be fulfilled which was spoken by the prophet, saying, I will open my mouth in parables; I will utter things which have been kept secret from the foundation of the world. [Matthew 13.35]

In the same way, the Bible grants poets “secret” sight into what Aurora refers to as the “real.” It even acknowledges that the prophet speaks in “parables,” which may remind the reader of a poet speaking his personal truths in verse.

Romney, on the other hand, becomes representative of Adam, banished from Eden and cursed to toil until Christ dies for his sins and redeems him.

He cried, ‘True. After Adam, work was curse,
The natural creature labors, sweats, and frets.
But, after Christ, work turns to privilege,
And, henceforth, one with our humanity,
The Six-day worker working still in us
Has called us freely to work on with Him
In high companionship. [VIII, 717-23]

The subtle switch from “Adam” to Romney’s inclusive term “us” suggests that while Aurora may have “immortal” vision, Romney represents the Adam who God “cursed the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat [of] it all the days of thy life” (Genesis 3.17). Truly, Romney does seem cursed, for all his plans to better society fail, leading ultimately to his own home being burnt to the ground by the suspicious folk he hoped to offer shelter to. But Aurora’s poetic words show Romney that his work, for all its failure, at least has brought him as an individual closer to God. And indeed, this idea of becoming personally closer to the Divine seems to be highlighted; Christ has enabled Romney to live “one with [his] humanity,” suggesting a more solitary sort of spiritual work rather than Romney’s overambitious goal to overturn all of England’s woes. Here, then, the reader sees how the two “types” interact: Aurora’s intimate poetry allows her a “double vision” and the elevated spiritual status of a prophet, and actually effects a change in the world-view of others who previously would not accept a woman as a poet, while Romney’s selfless attempt at giving back to society ends up backfiring and resembling Adam’s “curse” more than anything. This may be Barrett Browning’s own position on social reform; certainly by dooming all of Romney’s acts, she comments on the nature of reform as a whole. The attempt to solve all of England’s problems fail, but Aurora’s inward reflection and personal struggle with her poetry in the end actually helps more than Romney’s charity. Perhaps, then, Barrett Browning suggests that any reform of society must begin at an individual level, rather than in the form of a larger effort to change the masses as a whole. Like her husband’s book, Aurora Leigh is not explicitly or solely about religion. Yet the issues — social reform, a woman’s entrance into a male dominated field, the role of poetry — all seem to be undeniably linked by a common strand of religious and biblical symbolism, sharing a background which only makes these topics stand out further. Elizabeth Barrett Browning did believe in God, and the Christian faith, but all the same, in this work religion does serve as a tool to highlight other issues. Again, religious references are constantly present, but a reader’s religious views probably would not be affected by this text, for it trades on the standards of the Christian faith rather than showing a struggle to define a individual spirituality. Consciously or not, Barrett Browning’s Aurora Leigh seems to use religion in a distinctly Arnoldian way.

But what about those texts that do explicitly deal with religion? Could a work directly discussing religion or spirituality use typology simply as a platform to add social commentary? In some cases, it does have this affect, but in a not-so-simple way. An example of this can be seen in Newman’s sermon “Moses the Type of Christ.” (text) The text, which would have been preached to a crowd, appears to be a fairly straightforward explanation of the ways in which Moses resembles Christ. He points out how Moses delivered the Israelites from the Egyptians just as Jesus has saved mankind from hell, the way in which both could directly “reveal to us the will of God” (Newman, “Moses”), even the way in which both prophets suffered for the sake of others. While the language of the piece appropriately glorifies God and his prophets, it also demonstrates sheer logic and an attention to detail in the comparison, almost leading the reader to ask, what is the purpose of this sermon? If the sermon solely aimed to educate the public on the similarities between the two figures, it certainly succeeds. Yet generally the preacher has a didactic purpose more directly related to real life, and this does appear in the text. Newman laments man’s sinful behavior, especially because mankind has already heard God’s word and should follow his teachings. Obeying God, and following Christ, gives the believer access to “strange truths about ourselves, about God, about our duty, about the world, about heaven and hell, new modes of viewing things, discoveries which cannot be put into words, marvellous prospects and thoughts half understood, deep convictions inspiring joy and peace” (“Moses”). Is this not Arnold’s own point when he says that “establishments tend to give us a sense of a historical life of the human spirit, outside and beyond our own fancies and feeling; . . . they thus tend to suggest new sides and sympathies in us to cultivate” (21)? Newman tells his audience that by subscribing to the Christian faith and following the Bible’s teachings, one may open up other aspects of the self, and he demonstrates this by showing Moses, the man, to be not only a type of Christ, but the ultimate follower of him, and thus the most revered and — perhaps — the most cultured of mortals.

However, one must take this similarity with Arnold with a grain of salt, for while Newman clearly agrees that the Christian faith develops all aspects of a person, he just as obviously believes that religion serves a larger purpose and has an inherent spiritual value. Unlike Arnold’s position, in which he celebrates the Church of England as a contextualizing system allowing the believer a shortcut to becoming well-rounded and cultured, Newman fervently believes in Christian tenets and that following the Church’s teachings will lead to salvation of the soul. The “strange truths” one may learn upon accepting the Church only figure in as an added bonus, really; while Arnold chooses to focus on the way religion allows a person the time and space to individually discover these mysteries of life and humanity, Newman suggests that religion itself reveals them. The two points are not analogous, but overlap in meaning.

Sermons, of course, were not the only way to approach the topic of religion; poetry of the time also utilizes typology and biblical references to address issues of faith, with many poets using well-known religious symbols to convey different messages. The atheistSwinburne wrote poems clearly attacking the Church, but used its own imagery to do so. He does not hide the love lost between himself and the Church of England; in “Before a Crucifix” he says he has “nor tongue nor knee / For prayer,” and uses an actual crucifix to typify Jesus’ suffering for mankind. The poem continues on to suggest that the way the Church dwells on the torment of Jesus has only taught mankind to view suffering as a glorious means of enlightenment, and done nothing to alleviate it. He similarly uses religious imagery and biblical passages to make a statement about social issues (specifically the liberation of Italy) while simultaneously attacking the Christian faith in “The Saviour of Society.” Napoleon III was nicknamed “the savior of society” and the poem clearly expresses Swinburne’s disgust at what he viewed as Napoleon’s betrayal of Italian unification by reinstating Pope Pius IX, but Swinburne words the poem perfectly so that it also reflects the view he takes in “Before a Crucifix.”

O Son of man, but of what man who knows?
That broughtest healing on thy leathern wings
To priests, and under them didst gather kings,
And madest friends to thee of all man's foes;
Before thine incarnation, the tale goes,
Thy virgin mother, pure of sensual stings,
Communed by night with angels of chaste things,
And, full of grace, untimely felt the throes
Of motherhood upon her, and believed
The obscure annunciation made when late
A raven-feathered raven-throated dove
Croaked salutation to the mother of love
Whose misconception was immaculate,
And when her time was come she misconceived. [“The Savior of Society”]

One can clearly follow the condemnation of Napoleon&; the Virgin Mary symbolizes the fight for Italy’s liberation, who believes Napoleon to be a gift to the cause. But ultimately he “madest friends to thee all of man’s foes” and hurts the fight for Italian liberation rather than helping it. Swinburne uses the familiar biblical tale of Mary’s immaculate conception as a metaphor or extended type, twisting it to fit the situation. Yet cleverly his own feelings on religion are articulated in this twist; “O Son of man” refers to some mortal creation, ostensibly Napoleon — but also could stand in for the man-made Church, which assists “priests, and . . . kings,” perhaps referring to the hierarchy of power within the Church. This creation, made by virginal and innocent society, comes to be the foe of man, however, just as Swinburne articulates that the Church itself sustains the suffering of its believers in “Before a Crucifix.” Furthermore, society was “misconceived,” thinking the Church was a path to God. Society itself is “immaculate,” but the Church oppresses it and causes it to suffer.

Even if one chooses to look at the political implications alone, the reader can see that Swinburne uses religious terms to carefully layer his meaning. Some of the phrases and words he uses come directly from the bible; both “salutation” and “full of grace” appear in Luke 1.28-9. Other terms do not come from the Bible, but from the Christian church, and these images are twisted; instead of the immaculate conception, he says the “misconception is immaculate.” He also plays with the image of the dove, which traditionally symbolizes peace in Christianity, stemming from the tale of Noah. He paints this dove black, calling it “raven throated,” and its representation of peace darkens along with its feathers. The social commentary stands out especially clearly in this poem — Swinburne’s readers would have known to whom the poem was addressed. One can also understand why he might cloak this commentary in religious metaphor; Swinburne was an atheist, but his poems were written for a Christian audience, and the familiar setting of biblical language might have prevented a reader from feeling alienated by Swinburne’s radical political position. But if Swinburne intended to use the Bible to make his reader more comfortable and accepting of his remarks on society, why would he skew its imagery and story so blatantly? It seems too coincidental that his feelings on the Church of England, already articulated in “Before a Crucifix,” line up so perfectly with his criticism of Napoleon which he articulates in Biblical metaphor. Perhaps he aligns Napoleon and the Church as both harming society in the same way: by making society believe, at least initially, that their way will liberate and save, and yet ultimately failing to deliver on this promise. In any case, Swinburne clearly only values religion in a manner comparable to Arnold — it occupies his work merely as a system of common references.

Yet Swinburne was an atheist, and therefore seems the more likely to use religion in this distinctly irreverent Arnoldian manner. Alfred, Lord Tennyson, however, was not an atheist, which is not to say that he never grappled with his own faith. In Memoriam details Tennyson’s struggle to accept his friend’s death and understand his own conflicting feelings about spirituality and faith stemming from it. The series of poems shows Tennyson fluctuate between extreme emotion and cool reasoning in his quest for some sort of closure or resolution. But though he asks, “What then were God to such as I?” (In Memoriam, XXIV, 9) and alludes to the growing divide between religion and science in section LV, wondering, “Are God and Nature then at strife, / That nature lends such evil dreams? / So careful of the type she seems, / So careless of the single life” (In Memoriam, 5-9), Tennyson does not ambush the Church in the way Swinburne does, and he does not use extended typology in the way that Swinburne does, either. Instead, he approaches religion from an honest and personal position:

Tho' truths in manhood darkly join,
Deep-seated in our mystic frame,
We yield all blessing to the name
Of Him that made them current coin;

For Wisdom dealt with mortal powers,
Where truth in closest words shall fail,
When truth embodied in a tale
Shall enter in at lowly doors.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought
With human hands the creed of creeds
In loveliness of perfect deeds,
More strong than all poetic thought; [In Memoriam, XXXVI, lines 1-12]

Tennyson makes it clear that this poem will discuss the individual’s relationship with God by alluding to 1 Corinthians 13:12, “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known,” a passage famous for putting into words the ever-present distance between the mortal and divine. Tennyson uses the word “darkly” to describe “truths,” acknowledging that man cannot fully understand or “see” God. Despite this distance, he continues, mankind worships Christ for bringing his teachings of Christian love. When Tennyson mentions that “truth in closest words shall fail / when truth embodied in a tale / shall enter at lowly doors” (6-9) he probably means that the Bible’s fictional tales convey human truths more effectively than if they had been written outright, like lectures. Further, he suggests that the “Word,” or the gospels, for all that they may not have occurred, inspire true Christ-like actions. While Tennyson addresses the issue of society’s changing views on religion based on increased scientific knowledge using terms which recall the Bible and Christian faith, he does not use any metaphor or type to address it. Religion therefore does not appear to be a key to some other meaning, then, but the direct topic of discussion.

Yet even so, the reader does feel like a second reading appears in this section; when Tennyson allows that “truth embodied in a tale” makes a deeper mark than a truth stripped bare, it does seem that he speaks to the role of poetry and literature in society. Art and fiction function as vehicles for an author’s truth, the aspect of the tale which the author wishes the reader to take from his text. He alludes to this issue earlier in the collection of poems; he says “ . . . words, like nature, half reveal / And half conceal the Soul within” (In Memoriam, V, 2-4). Poetry attempts to convey Tennyson’s internal state, his grief and his very “soul,” but words surround and partially obscure this personal truth, unable to fully represent it, in the same way that the Bible both reveals and conceals — while its factitious nature may hide the ‘truth’ about what occurred in the time of Moses or even Jesus, this same fictional aspect conveys a deeper spiritual truth. This deeper truth appears more valuable; Tennyson says that this “creed of creeds” leads to selfless and Christ-like behavior. Does this second reading mean that, despite the lack of typology in the piece, Tennyson uses the common ground of religion to comment on the role of poetry in his life in an Arnoldian way? One should perhaps recall that In Memoriam as a whole reflects a period of mourning in Tennyson’s life, a time in which he struggled with his faith and his view on death, until he could finally accept his position in relation to God and mortality and move on with his life, seeming to echo Arnold’s claim that by subscribing to set religious beliefs one becomes free to explore other shades of identity.

It must be said that it seems unwise to assume that one fully understands the author’s intentions. Did Tennyson intend to use religion simply to illustrate some other personal struggle? Perhaps, but his works certainly award some worth to religion and its effect on society beyond that of allowing for smoother communication on other topics. While it appears that the discussed texts all seem to utilize religion to transmit a more subtle message, some to a greater extent than others, it cannot be said that these texts are all “Arnoldian,” or that the authors of these texts subscribe to Arnold’s theory, for this would be an oversimplification, in the same way that labeling literature as “Victorian” only gives the vaguest description of it. Rather, perhaps this common strand throughout the works speaks more to Arnold’s definition of “culture” as opposed to the reality of Victorian society. Arnold seems to operate under the assumption that “culture” consists of distinct and compartmentalized sections, of which religion or spirituality is only one, where the individual must resolve each aspect independently in order to achieve balance. But this conclusion may be based on somewhat flawed logic, for the many aspects of humanity and society are not compartmentalized at all. When a child learns to read from a Bible, for example, this will color his perception of academics; legislators base laws on ethics shaped by religion. Arnold would view this as a way in which the system of religion allows an individual free thought on other topics, being resolved spiritually; but in truth all aspects of society interact. When scientific knowledge reached the point of evolution, for example, many (like Tennyson) altered their religious beliefs. Science actually acts on and changes religion, just as religion alters the legal system. These aspects of “culture” do not lie quietly, used only as measuring sticks for one another, but influence and inform each other to the point that religion cannot neatly be subtracted from culture as a pre-made and rigid set of beliefs as Arnold suggests. In a religious state like Victorian England, a text would be more notable for its lack of religious references than their presence, no matter the topic. Religion was not simply a lens through which to look at the world; religion was part of that world. Perhaps, then, the value of Arnold’s theory does not lie in its direct application to literature, but, like the vague “Victorian” label, simply reminds the reader of the vitality of context: a piece of literature does not reflect one message, or serve one purpose, but instead reflects the complexities of one individual’s thought within an even more complex culture, an intricate framework called society.

Works Cited

Arnold, Matthew. “Preface,” Culture and Anarchy: An Essay in Political and Social Criticisms. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1960, pp. 3-38.